


Like a Brooch or Fancy Pen

by kayliemalinza



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:27:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teaser: “How did I not know about this?” Peter says. He sinks his fingers into the down, because of course Peter Burke completely ignores basic etiquette when it comes to Neal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Brooch or Fancy Pen

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for touching without consent and other Peteresque obliviousness.

“How did I not know about this?” Peter says. He sinks his fingers into the down, because of course Peter Burke completely ignores basic etiquette when it comes to Neal. His fingertips rasp along the feathers, coaxing them from the follicles. The feathers iridesce as they fall.

Peter digs in until he hits the ligaments and bone. He prods, examining the joint.

“Ow,” says Neal.

Peter startles, and it hurts more when he pulls back than all the other stuff; Neal can’t hold in a gasp. Peter’s hands hover over his shoulders, like his human parts are oversensitive now, too.

“It’s okay,” Neal says.

“You could feel that?” Peter asks.

Neal shakes his head. “I can’t feel anything from the feathers themselves, but they can tug on the follicles. Like rubbing a cat’s fur the wrong way.” Or like tousling your hair after it’s been soaked with sweat and dried stiff, though Peter’s hair is short enough that he might not get that. “And I think I sprained the joint coming around the corner,” he says. New York alleyways are not known for their commodious breadth, and Neal’s wingspan is, modestly put, painfully impressive.

“Do you need—” Peter stops short. “I was about to suggest a hospital.”

“Oh, right, that wouldn’t cause problems,” Neal says. There’s no need to be snippy, not when Peter is clearly so flummoxed, but Peter also has oily fingers that are inching towards his wings again. Neal twitches involuntarily; the hem of Peter’s coat wavers in the resulting breeze.

Peter looks at him suddenly, looks at his face. He’d been staring at Neal’s wings this whole time, and Neal could practically feel it: the heavy gaze on the proud knots of the wrists; sliding down the knife-edge pinions; tousling the frothy undersides; squinting, injured, when the feathers shift and send out a thousand shards of light.

“I have to tell Elizabeth,” Peter says.

“Peter—” It’s not that Neal doesn’t like Elizabeth, or doesn’t trust her, but these wings are _his_ and—

“They’re so beautiful,” says Peter, like he can put them in a box to make her smile.


End file.
